By Babel’s streams we sat and wept,
For me­mo­ry still to Zi­on clung;
The winds alone our harp-strings swept,
That on the droop­ing wil­lows hung.

There our rude cap­tors, flushed with pride,
A song re­quired to mock our wrongs;
Our spoil­ers called for mirth and cried,
Come, sing us one of Zi­on’s songs.

Not songs but sighs to us be­long
When Zi­on’s walls in ru­in lie;
How shall we sing Je­ho­vah’s song
While in an ali­en land we die?

O Zi­on fair, God’s ho­ly hill,
Wherein our God de­lights to dwell,
Let my right hand for­get her skill
If I for­get to love thee well.

If I do not re­mem­ber thee,
Then let my tongue from ut­ter­ance cease,
If any earth­ly joy to me
Be dear as Zi­on’s joy and peace.

Remember, Lord, the dread­ful day
Of Zion’s cru­el ov­er­throw;
How hap­py he who shall re­pay
The bit­ter hat­red of her foe.